


The Wolf in my Skin

by KokoBean



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, But only sort of?, Canon-Typical Violence, D.Va needs to shut her mouth, Hanzo's a fuckin furry, M/M, Masturbation, Mating Cycles/In Heat, McCree is so conflicted, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Werewolf Jesse McCree
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 07:44:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7926376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KokoBean/pseuds/KokoBean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a brush with Talon that leaves him far more feral than most people are comfortable with, Jesse McCree puts himself in relationship exile. If he can't trust himself during the full moon, how could someone else?<br/>That is, until one Hanzo Shimada shows up- a man who knows what he wants and isn't afraid to play with fire. </p><p>Lassie, eat your heart out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wolf in my Skin

**Author's Note:**

> I had to jump on werewolf McCree train, I couldn't help myself, I'm so weak.  
> I was originally intending for this to be a really long oneshot, but then I got impatient and broke it up in two parts. Chapter two is gonna be 100% FILTH.  
> Prepare the confessional, I have many sins 
> 
> Music inspiration: Animals - Maroon 5, Change (in the House of Flies) - Deftones (this is seriously such a sex song to me. Just... The sound of it. Holy shit. So filthy, so sensual, god bless)

Of all the things that were difficult to explain about his... _modified physiology_... the ruts were the worst.  
  


* * *

  
When he'd been caught by Talon originally, he'd been on the run for years and was running out of options. He was _tired,_ bone-deep exhaustion that dogged his every step and made him sloppy. He didn't care if their sniper was the best he'd ever seen; he should have been _better._  
The sedative worked fast and hard, dropping him like a stone in the middle of some dusty, long forgotten road, and when he woke up next it was to steel restraints and needles.  
  
He remembers very few things about his time in the facility- brief flashes of lab coats, IV lines, being blinded by pen lights when his pupils are tested for responsiveness. Things he shouldn't be able to hear, like the barely-there buzz of the fluorescent lights, or the heartbeats of the lab techs. 

He's haunted by the sight of a skull, hovering just beyond the windows of his cell, tilting in birdlike curiosity as it watches him, day in and day out.  
  
He remembers the sounds, the smells, the way his veins feel full of fire, and the _heat._ He remembers that, above all else.  
  
They hadn't been prepared for the reality of it, that much was obvious. They'd checked his symptoms off on clipboards, ran more tests, called in for more restraints when he'd nearly taken a tech's arm off. They thought he'd been after blood, but in reality, he'd been after _skin._ After the heat of it, the smell of sweat and musk. Feminine, masculine- it didn't matter. He _wanted._  
  
They were fascinated by the eerie whines and keens as he strained in his chains and manacles, drenched in sweat and completely uncaring of the bloody welts he was tearing into his own fever-raw skin because of it. He'd felt it when a scientist came closer, greedy for a better look- could hear their rabbit-quick heartbeat, could almost _taste_ the blood rushing under the clammy skin.  
  
The first mistake Talon made was letting that tech reach out to touch, absolutely enthralled by the heat shimmers rising from his skin.  
  
The chains broke with a horrific shriek when he lunged, snarling and chasing blindly after the startled yells and screams. He was weak and clumsy from sedatives, tripping on machinery cords and tumbling over exam tables in his haste to catch all of white blurs running away from him. _Prey,_ his mind screamed, claws grappling against tile and stainless steel to right himself.  
  
The second mistake Talon made was sending Reaper in to deal with him when tranquilizer darts did nothing.  
  
The familiar skull visage stopped him up short, the lines of a well-built body coming into sharp focus as he stared. The wraith was saying something, but he was deaf to the words, only hearing the rumbling intonation, the way it vibrated straight to his bones.  
  
He ignored the shotgun barrel pressed against his chest, overwhelmed with the scent of leather and gunpowder and something distinctly inhuman. Under it all was something visceral and familiar, faint but there, that stoked the embers in his spine to a wildfire.  
_Packmate_ , it whispered, as ephemeral as the wisps of smoke that escaped the wraith, then firmer- _Mate._ _ **Mate**_ _._  
  
In an instant, too fast for human eyes, both shotguns pointed at him were on the ground, the wraith was backed into a wall, and he had his face shoved into the folds of the leather coat where it split to form the hood.  
Metal claws were digging into his back, trying to throw him off, but he was numb to the pain and the blood running down his sides. He shoved bodily between the wraith's thick thighs, digging his own claws into pleasingly sturdy hips and panting open-mouthed against the sliver of exposed skin on their neck to absorb as much of that elusive scent as he could.  
  
The wraith thrashed, growling and spitting, and he snarled right back, low and bestial, rutting mindlessly into the vee of the wraith's legs and licking a stripe up the side of their neck. Wanting, _needing._  
His voice, when it came, was a distorted rumble full of gravel and promise.  
  
“Gabriel,” he growled, hauling the suddenly still body closer by the hips and tearing the leather, dragging his cheek against the side of the cold polymer mask. “ _Gabriiieel.”_  
  
Those deadly claws digging into the back of his neck were all the warning he got before his world turned upside-down, inside-out, warping sickeningly in a black haze as the wind roared in his ears. In the time it took him to drag in a pained breath to howl, he was being dumped on the cold, wet ground of a forest.  
  
A heavy boot came down on his chest to keep him pinned there and he whined, needing to be against that tease of bodily warmth and wonderfully inviting smell again. He pawed weakly at the wraith's calf, wheezing out whimpers and rocking his hips furtively into the air.  
  
“You're pathetic, cabrón.”  
  
The words sound like they're underwater, and he barely grasps them when the weight of the boot is suddenly gone, along with the wraith, in a cloud of ash and smoke.  
  
He howls mournfully, twisting to crawl along the ground and try and chase the smell of _home,_ to distinguish the gunsmoke from moss and leaf litter. __  
He gives up when he can't catch even a hint of it, collapsing to writhe fitfully in the dirt, desperate for the release he was denied.  
  
He's entirely oblivious to the gaze of his would-be prize, watching over him until he's worn himself out with how many times he's clawed himself through an unsatisfying orgasm, each howl sounding more and more like ragged sobs.  
  
He passes the whisper light touch on his sweaty cheek off as a figment of his overwrought mind, and curls up, shivering, into the base of an old oak. He fades in and out of consciousness for hours, and the full moon is starting to dim in the dawn when he feels the brush of a touch again, there and gone like smoke.  
  
When he opens his eyes to investigate, the world swimming around him in a kaleidoscope of watercolors, he's distracted by someone calling his name. Is it his name? He thinks it is.  
A woman is descending on him in a halo of golden light and he's heartbroken to realize he _knows_ her, would recognize that beautiful, timeless face anywhere, old sorrows and memories rushing up to engulf him like the tide.  
  
She touches down next to him, all white armor and glowing wings and worry that still somehow looks beautiful on her, and he manages a broken smile through the blood and dirt.  
  
“Howdy, Angel,” he rasps, hoarse and rough and completely unconcerned that he's buck naked in the middle of the woods.  
  
She gasps a watery laugh, tells him to hang on, and runs her steady hands over him to assess the already healing damage.  
  
The last things he's aware of before unconsciousness swallows him completely is the rumble of an approaching jet transport, and black smoke in the corner of his eye slithering away into the morning light.  
  


* * *

  
A week after being recovered, they'd gone back to the facility- destroyed, abandoned -and salvaged as much info on his testing as they could.  
Angela marveled at his modified biology, at his ability to heal and his heightened senses. McCree just thought it all was a damned irritation.  
  
Explaining the heats, or _ruts,_ as the testing logs called it, to the sweet doctor was... Painfully awkward, at best. He barely remembered that first one as it was, and groaned in abject dismay when Angela explained that, unless she could come up with countermeasures, they would continue to happen.  
She neglected to tell him that they would get _worse,_ but maybe she hadn't known.  
  
They always coincided with the full moon, the week leading up to it a mess of aggression that he could barely wrangle in.  
He'd gotten into the habit of requesting away missions from Winston for these times, wanting to be far away from his teammates because, really, he couldn't trust himself.  
He was terrified that he'd break one day, send one of them through a wall for a comment that any other time he'd take as a joke. Riling each other up was what they _did,_ ribbing each other with friendly challenges on the daily like the most disjointed family.  
  
It wasn't their fault that something in his brain chanted _alpha alpha alpha,_ that it demanded compliance from people who'd spent as much time fighting as he had, if not longer. It snarled about pack hierarchy, snapped and growled at any sign of counter aggression in the week leading up to the moon, and it rattled McCree to his bones.  
  
He didn't want to think about the overwhelming lust that always followed, the need to claim and mark that sometimes hit him so hard it dropped him to his knees. It horrified the human part of his brain, this animalistic desire that started a mantra of _fight hunt mate breed_ when the moon rose, luminous and full.  
  
His hand was never enough, hours spent thrashing on the dirty ground, drenched in sweat and panting for a satisfaction that wouldn't come. He'd ruined plenty of hotel sheets, his own clothes, clawing and desperate after the fifth, sixth, seventh empty orgasm, wanting to climb out of his own skin.  
He wanted what he couldn't have, shamefully washing himself of his own blood and seed in the morning, petrified of what he might do to a partner. He couldn't- _wouldn't-_ risk it.

It helped that he wasn't attracted to any of his team- _pack_ -mates, didn't burn for them. Only something unknown, faceless, that he was convinced he'd never come across.  
  
That all changed when Genji, sweet Genji, returned to the Gibraltar base with a new member in tow.  
  
Thickly muscled, compact with power, all sharp angles and high cheekbones and the most devastatingly beautiful face McCree had ever seen. The man had met his stare unflinchingly, tipping his chin in what could have been a short greeting or a cleverly disguised challenge, and McCree's chest rumbled with a pleased growl before he could stop it.  
He's immediately embarrassed, his own sheepish chuckles joining Genji's ringing laughter, and shuffled forward a step to stick his hand out.  
  
“McCree. Jesse McCree.” he greets, tipping his hat with his prosthetic hand in an automatic motion. The man flicks his gaze to McCree's outstretched, gloved hand, hesitating a tense moment before clasping it in his own. His grip is strong, sure, and the gunslinger is close enough to smell tea leaves, incense smoke, and the man's own unique musk. It's heady, warm, inviting to McCree's senses, and he clears his throat to cover the second involuntary growl.  
He didn't do a good job of it, if the man's fleeting smirk is anything to go by.  
  
“Shimada Hanzo.” he replies, voice as smooth as honey whiskey, and McCree swallows around the lump of smoldering coal in his chest.

So _this_ is Genji's sibling, his legendary older brother, and the danger McCree knows is hiding behind those almond eyes _really_ shouldn't turn him on so much. He can hear Genji tittering, a quiet snorting giggle as he crosses his arms over his chest that McCree has come to associate with smugness, and he steps back from the elder Shimada like he's been burnt.  
  
“Ah, yeah, nice to meet'cha, heard a lot about ya, uh...” McCree trails off, trying to look anywhere but at that sly little smirk. Dammit _dammit._ “Welcome to Overwatch, partner.”  
  
Hanzo chuckles, low and throaty, and it does something funny to the butterflies in McCree's stomach.  
  
“Genji has told me much about you, McCree,” his name in the man's accent would be comical if the gunslinger wasn't so enamored with the way those lips shaped around it. The tea smoke smell seemed to curl around him as the shorter man stepped closer, unnervingly so. “I look forward to working with you.”  
  
Hanzo breezed by him then, McCree's entire right side tingling with heat prickles where he'd been an inch from touching. He waits a moment before slouching from his tense posture with a groan, dragging his hat down over his face to block out Genji's merrily twinkling visor.  
  
“I think he likes you!” the ninja chirps, slapping him on the back, and McCree swats him away halfheartedly. He's too busy trying to ignore the way his instincts have taken an intense interest in the new member of the team-his pack- _the team._  
  
“I hate you.” McCree grumbles and turns on his heel to bury his embarrassment in ludicrous amounts of food, hating that he can feel the burn of a blush on his ears and neck.  
  
“You know,” Genji calls after him, and McCree braces for impact, “Hanzo has always wanted a dog of his own!”  
  
McCree makes an undignified noise that he'll later deny making, and almost trips on his own boots in his haste to get away from the damn cyborg, burning from the inside-out with mortification.  
  
Genji's laughter follows him all the way down the hall, but Hanzo's purring voice stays with him the rest of the day.  
  
_I'm so fucked._  
  


* * *

_  
_ Two months went by in this way; McCree edging around Hanzo, intrigued but wary, while the archer baited him just subtly enough to be confusing. Was he mocking, or dropping hints? McCree was never sure.

There was no denying how well of a team they made, Hanzo's nimble agility and quick shooting a perfect compliment to McCree's slower, straightforward offense and aggression. Hanzo always had McCree's six, and in return, the gunslinger covered the archer's flanks without fail.  
Hanzo tempered McCree's wild, unpredictable side. McCree brought the errant archer to heel.  
  
It was a calculated, very effective dance of press and retreat that everyone except the cowboy was aware of. He refused to believe that Hanzo was genuine in any of his coy, double-sided comments. Tried, valiantly, to ignore that it seemed like the archer would pick fights with him on purpose, challenging him at every step in a way the wolf couldn't ignore.  
  
Lena had a betting pool set up- unbeknownst to the gunslinger in question -on when McCree would snap and just drag Hanzo off to put him in place.  
“Just like on the Discovery channel!” she'd chirp with a wink and a grin, much to Hana's amusement and Winston's embarrassment. 

McCree still disappeared for the week of the full moon, eager to be across the country on mind-numbing recon missions in the day and shut away in a safehouse at night.  
  
The only thing that changed was how constant arousal buzzed under the surface of his skin from day one. An itch he couldn't scratch that put him more on edge than usual, led him to hump uselessly into the threadbare mattress with an abandon he wanted to deny.  
It would only get worse as the days dragged on; claws flexing in the pillows, fangs biting into his own lip until he bled, fucking ruthlessly into his fist and clenching his fingers around the base of his knot to weakly simulate what he really needed.  
  
No one had to know that his thoughts were plagued by a sharp smile, a plush chest, and liquid black eyes.  
  
On the night of the second full moon, panting like he'd run for miles, his fangs buried into a ruined pillow and surrounded by feathers from the bedding, he conceded that _something_ had to give. His arm was tired, his _everything_ was tired, except his cock, which stubbornly continued to hang heavy and full and demanding.  
Really, there's only so much a man can take.  
__  
A dragon for a wolf, his traitorous mind whispered, _perfect alpha mate._  
  
McCree groaned, his hand slinking down over his sweaty stomach and between his legs for the umpteenth time that week.  
  
_I'm double fucked._  
  


* * *

_  
_ Little did McCree know, he'd be _triple_ fucked, because the next month, they were in base-wide lockdown.

It wasn't supposed to last longer than a week- a precautionary measure to avoid the press after a mission that went a little south and a lot public -but the media refused to let it go.  
Shaky video recordings of the clash with Talon in Chicago had already gone viral, and while they were safe from US legalities while overseas, it was better to lay low for a while to avoid drawing international attention. The last thing they needed was for the Gibraltar base to be compromised, and have the PETRAS act slammed over their heads. Folks like McCree would never see life outside of maximum security prison again. 

By the time the lockdown had dragged on for a little over two weeks, McCree was ready to break protocol and risk newscasters just to get away.  
  
“Winston, buddy, c'mon, I can't stay here,” McCree wheedles for the third time in as many days, following the scientist as he ambles around computer consoles and half finished projects.  
  
“Jesse, I've told you, you can't leave the base. It's simply too risky at this time,” Winston sighs, weary of this argument, pushing his glasses up with one thick finger. “I understand that it's getting close to the full moon, but you'll just have to stay put, I'm sorry.”  
  
McCree huffs, irritated, chewing on an unlit cigar. He's only so bothered because he doesn't know what he'll do around so many people during the full moon- he's never trusted himself with the opportunity to try. 

“Is there nothing that Angela can do for you? A sedative, perhaps?” Winston asks, shuffling some papers into order as he folds himself into a chair. McCree shakes his head in one sharp move, mouth twisting in a grimace. 

“Nah, even Angie's stuff don't work on me. Metabolism's too fast or some damn thing, I dunno.” he snorts inelegantly and shifts, antsy and restless. “Thanks anyways, partner. Just... Gimme some space n' whatnot. Gonna be a bumpy ride.”  
  
Winston nods, turning a jar of peanut butter over in his hands as he peers at McCree. He knows this is difficult, can understand how hard it can be to manage instinct and anger.  
  
“I truly am sorry, McCree. We will all do our best to support you through it.”  
  
McCree sighs and nods with a flippant wave of a hand, suddenly tired with resignation. He tips his hat as he turns before shoving both hands in his pockets, leaving without another word.  
  
The full moon is still five days away, but he can feel the itch already starting under his skin, the urge to run and keep running. He settles for retreating to his room and locking himself there for the rest of the day, skipping dinner and spending the night awake with tense worry.  
It was going to be a long week.  
  


* * *

  
The next morning sees McCree irritated with everything, and trying in vain to hide it. The worst part is that it's all over completely ridiculous things, like being unable to find a certain shirt or his coffee being a little too sweet.  
  
He's slouched at the dining table with a scowl, already too hot to wear anything beyond a pair of ratty sweatpants and a standard issue tanktop. He refuses to go without his hat, even though it looks absolutely ridiculous on him at the moment, but no one dares try to rib him about it. Hana had already mentioned something about 'showing off for the gun show', and he'd shot her such a nasty look she'd immediately quieted.  
This only made him more irritable, at himself more than anything, and now the conversation around the table is quiet in the wake of his gruff apology. Even so, it's just shy of too loud for his sensitive hearing, and he doesn't realize a growl is building in his throat until Angela shoots him a quelling look.  
  
McCree's hands tighten on the ceramic mug in his hands, the saccharine coffee long gone cold, and he meets her gaze head-on without flinching. The good doctor, bless her, catches herself a moment later and averts her eyes down and away, and McCree's briefly furious with himself for how the submissive gesture placates him. He shouldn't be pleased when his own friends bend to him like that- especially Angela, she knows better than anyone about how hard this is, for god's sake.  
  
Distracted by his brooding, McCree doesn't notice Hanzo approaching until the archer is sitting down next to him followed by a small chorus of 'good morning's. Hanzo nods in return and settles with his own cup of tea, and McCree takes as deep of an inhale as he can without being obvious about it. The archer's scent- much to McCree's chagrin -has become soothing to him, the tea leaf and smoke smell a balm to frazzled nerves.  
The gunslinger shifts closer, imperceptible to rest of the table- but of course Hanzo notices, the archer turning his body just enough so they're sharing each other's space. It's such a small move, a subtle, open invitation, and McCree is dumbfounded by the fact that he's never noticed it before. It's obvious it's not new; Hanzo moved almost perfectly in sync to him, like the action has long become habit and he doesn't realize he's doing it anymore.  
  
McCree tunes out the conversation, something upbeat with a lot of laughter now that Lúcio has joined in, and finds himself enamored with the long line of Hanzo's neck. The archer's turned his head to talk quietly with Angela, and it's stretched his throat into a very appealing blank canvas from jaw to collarbone. He wears his haori correctly while they're 'off duty', properly covered up, and McCree laments the loss of being able to see the man's perfectly sculpted shoulders and chest.

Hanzo's voice is quiet, would be lost in the other conversations if McCree weren't listening so closely, a lilting purr that he wants to hear more of, preferably when it's hoarse from a good fuck.  
He doesn't realize he's leaning in even closer until Hanzo's gaze flickers over, watching McCree from the corner of his eye, and the gunslinger freezes. They've both stopped paying attention to the others, entirely focused on one another, and McCree lets a small pleased growl out at the quiet challenge in the archer's eyes.  
Hanzo's gaze goes half-lidded and smoky at the sound, a sultry come-hither that McCree's weak to, inching his way into the archer's personal space. Hanzo's still as stone, allowing the closeness, his lips parting in a gentle sigh that's entirely too distracting, his stare dragging down to the gunslinger's own mouth and making McCree realize he's bared his teeth just a little, enough to show a small flash of fang.  
There's a soft blush creeping across those high cheekbones, pinking the tips of archer's ears, and McCree can't stop himself from puffing up a bit, _preening._  
  
_Like what you see?_ He wants to ask, and even though it comes out as a low, rumbling growl instead of words, Hanzo responds all the same. The archer's Adam's apple bobs in a swallow before he ticks his jaw up at an angle, a relatively small gesture that could be seen as confusion to anyone else, but McCree sees it for what it is; a baring of the throat, a submissive request and plea in one movement. _Take it, alpha._  
His human hand has moved to Hanzo's chair, achingly close to one strong thigh, and McCree _burns_ with the desire to sink his claws in, bury his face in that gorgeous neck, cover the man's pale skin with bites and bruises. He shifts his weight, preparing to move, watches as Hanzo shifts in perfect correspondence, ready for it- _bracing for it,_ when something hits the table hard with a startlingly loud _smack._  
  
They both jump and whip their heads around to find Hana scowling at them, her hand still flat from where she'd brought it down on the tabletop. Lúcio's face is twisting in a comical effort to not laugh, and Angela looks somewhere between concerned and mildly intrigued.  
  
“Can you two stop eye-fucking each other at the table? _Ugh,_ that's so gross, no one needs to see that.” Hana grouches, her lip pulling up in disgust, and Lúcio finally breaks with a cackle. 

Hanzo at least has the grace to look somewhat chastised, clearing his throat and looking away, and McCree would be infatuated with how the archer's blush darkens prettily if he weren't so irritated.  
  
“Watch yer mouth, girl.” he snaps, then grimaces like he didn't mean to say that. Hana straightens, expression dark, her mouth opening to retort, and McCree's already growling a warning when Angela graciously steps in.  
  
“You shouldn't bait him, Hana. McCree, why don't you go run it off? Nothing good will come from sitting around.” the good doctor cuts in, perfectly calm. McCree huffs a sigh, forcefully relaxing, and stands, Hanzo standing with him. The archer's face is unreadable now, but he stays close.  
  
“Sounds good, Ang. Sorry 'bout bein' so testy.” McCree refuses to look at Hana, knowing the young defiance in her will rile him right back up. _Bratty pup._  
  
He turns to go, his human arm tingling from where it briefly brushed up against Hanzo's.  
Hana grumbles something under her breath, too quiet for anyone to catch, but McCree isn't just anyone.  
“ _Take it out on his ass._ ”

It's a testament to how long they've worked together that Hanzo sees the movement as it happens, lunging out to grab McCree's shoulders when the gunslinger whips around, lightning fast, and bodily hauls him back.

Hana looks honestly startled by the flash of fangs and dangerous snarl directed at her, shrinking back in her seat, and McCree feels a sharp pang of remorse under the protective fury for spooking the girl. Angela is watching him warily, and Lúcio... Lúcio's staring at him like he's a feral animal.  
_I may as well be._  
  
“Leave it,” Hanzo says, tugging on McCree's shoulders. He doesn't budge, distracted by the creeping feeling of self horror. Hanzo leans into him, loosening his hold on the gunslinger, and tries again, softer, “Leave it, McCree.”  
  
It's the gentle tone in Hanzo's voice that pulls him back and he nods, absent, following obediently when the archer guides him out into the hallway. The kitchen is silent behind them, and McCree slouches a bit, disappointed in himself and wanting nothing more than to disappear in some dark corner of the storage bay.  
  
“She's a foolish child, but it is a hard lesson she had to learn sooner or later.” Hanzo says into the quiet, and that's when McCree realizes the archer is still holding his shoulder, arm looped around his back and pressed to his side like the gunslinger might tip over. McCree hates that he's reassured by the contact.  
  
They've rounded the corner to the dormitories and McCree is suddenly too tired to question it, tapping in the code for his door when they stop in front of it. Hanzo lets him go and the gunslinger half expects to be followed, only to turn and be surprised when he sees the archer still standing in the doorway. Hanzo eyes him for a moment before tilting his head in a small bow, making no move to invite himself in.  
  
“Get some rest, McCree.” he murmurs, and McCree nods in dumb acknowledgment. In the next instant Hanzo is leaving, prosthetics tapping quietly down the hall, and the door slides shut automatically.  
  
McCree stands still in the middle of his room for a moment, off kilter and subdued, before flopping onto his bed with a gusty sigh.  
  
“Goddamn.” the silence of his room seems to agree with him, and he drags a hand roughly down his face. “God-damn.”  
  
Not even eleven am and he's already stirring shit up. McCree's only been awake for three hours, but he settles in for a nap anyways, shoving his face into the pillow and blocking out the world. He'll deal with this when he's less frazzled.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> HAHAHA fuck. Dammit McCree.  
> Next chapter: Hanzo's done playin' cat and mouse. Dragon and wolf. same thing.
> 
> hit me up on my tumblr: misterstereodream.tumblr.com


End file.
